Kansas Summer

Yabba Dabba Do!

I stand in one of the endzones of the brown, patchy field, Frisbee in hand. It was ninety degrees that September 1994 afternoon, but the heat wasn't what was making me sweat, it was the anticipation and the nervousness. I am a freshman trying out for the Ultimate Frisbee team, an undertaking that few before me have done. At Goodland High School, we have one of the best teams in the state, and few make it past try-outs, especially not freshmen. That's not saying that I didn't think that I had what it took; if I didn't, then I wouldn't be here. I brush the gathering sweat off of my quivering brow. It was showtime.

The first test of try-outs is the distance throw, but not just distance is measured, strength, accuracy, and flatness are included as well. I have but practiced throwing for hours each day with my friends Christian, Elliott, and Sid for months leading up to today. My performance now will decide my future for perhaps the next four years. I know I can do this, I just need to concentrate. I look behind me at the people who have gathered to try-out. Christian, Elliott, and Sid are there, cheering me on. To the right of them stand Mr. Kenner and Mr. Shroeder, the two coaches. I turn back, facing downfield toward the two markers that stand seventy-five yards away. I close my eyes and whisper a quick prayer to ask for a straight throw. My foot scrapes across the dry grass.

Taking the first of three steps, I bring the Frisbee back, clutching the rim with my forefingers. By the third stride, I plant my foot, swing my arm, and flick my wrist. A good Frisbee throw never comes from the arms, but from the wrists. I watch my spinning projectile soar almost effortlessly over the barren grass. The summer wind buffets it slightly, but it stays on course. Flying exactly between the two markers at the other side of the field, my Frisbee stays airborne until it lands thirty feet behind the endzone. I am impressed, and I hope the coaches are too. I hear applause from the crowd, but I stop to point skyward. God gives me my talent, not myself.

“That was great, Colin!” Elliott yells from the bench. He probably is my most enthusiastic fan.

“Thanks, Elliott,” I tell him, “but I don't think that I could do it again!”

“Good job, Curly,” Christian congratulates me. I roll my eyes. Some things are just better not explained.

“Nice,” remarks Sid, “you should've heard the scream from the girls after you threw that.”

“They screamed?”

“Dude, yeah they did!” Elliott interjects.

“I didn't hear any screaming,” I confess.

“Especially from your girlfriend over there,” Christian informs me.

It isn't uncommon for me to roll my eyes at everything he says. “She isn't my girlfriend, guys.”

“Who isn't your what?” Elliott asks. “Oh, you mean that Alyse chick? Yeah, she seems to be into you a lot.”

“Yeah, I thought she was going to like have a heart attack over there,” Sid comments. “Look, she's still clapping.

“I have no interest in girls who have an interest in me for my outward appearance.”

“Elliott Stutler, you're up!” Coach Kenner calls.

Changing the subject, I yell, “Whoo, Elliott! Go get 'em!” I slap him on the back as he runs past me to take his position at the end of the field and begin his try-outs.

The second part of try-outs is my favorite; an actual game. The twenty people who show up to try-outs were split into two teams. Sid, Christian, and I are all on the same team, but poor Elliott is against us. Like he always does, Elliott complains for a few minutes, but once the coaches signal for us to begin, he shuts up about it.

My team gets the first throw-off, and I am naturally the first choice to throw. Just like I did in the first part of try-outs, I take three steps, and then throw. I didn't think when I threw it, but three words escaped my lips as I launched the disc: “Yabba, Dabba, Doo!” For a second, everyone looks at me like I dropped an F-bomb. I even see the other team hesitate. It doesn't matter though, because the Frisbee sails over their heads. I grin, but don't rush to the other side like everyone else does. I am patient, and wait at about midfield.

Just like I knew they would, the other team passes the Frisbee in a large arc, keeping it in the air way too long, to someone who is standing right at midfield. I use the other team's mistake to my advantage. As if I had wings, I run at the kid, and jump to intercept the disc. I leap about seven feet in the air, cleanly snatching the stalling Frisbee out of the dry air. The kid looks at me, dumbstruck. I throw him a grin, and launch my newly claimed Frisbee to Sid, who was waiting unguarded in the endzone, and made an unnecessary jump to catch the Frisbee. The first drive was over, and already I could tell that I was making an impression on the coaches.

I start the second drive as well with another “Yabba, Dabba, Doo!”, and again the Frisbee sails over the heads of the opposing team. I think that I have found my new catchphrase. More quickly than last time, the other team retrieves the Frisbee, and passes it back and forth in short passes along the side of the line. Some Asian kid who is on my team runs at them, screaming his head off. I think the kid is crazy, but his tactic works. Distracted by his yells, one of the players drops the Frisbee, and I immediately rush over to pick it up.

I am being guarded by a huge kid with black hair who is wearing a black t-shirt. He moves his hands everywhere, and moves them so quickly that I can't get a good throw in. Once I think that I can throw, I let loose as hard as I can, hoping to get it farther away than it is now, hopefully to the endzone. Unfortunately for the kid, he moves his head right where my Frisbee is going. I hear the thump as the plastic disc collides with his head. He falls to the ground in pain, but I can't say that I'm sorry; he was the one who got in my way, and hopefully he has learned his lesson. “CHAD!” someone on the his team yells to him. So that's what his name is. I wait by the Frisbee as Chad picks himself off of the dusty ground and another one of his teammates picks the Frisbee of of the ground and throws it towards the endzone. As a result of Chad's unfortunate accident, I decide to go a little less aggressive on my guarding, which is a mistake on my part, because the Frisbee goes right to Elliott.

Well, at least it would've, had Christian not come out of nowhere and slap the disc to the ground. I pump my fist. That was a good play. Christian himself launches it halfway down the field, where another player, a senior named Sammy, throws it down to Sid waiting in the endzone. Success.

After the game, we all get back together and drink our water, letting it drip down the backs of our parched throats. Sometimes, a bit of it splashes down the front of our shirts, already soaked with sweat. I congratulate all of the players; they all did a good job. I am especially proud of my friends.

“And then, I thought Elliott had it, and then Christian came and stole it!” I laugh.

“Yeah, that was so unfair!” Elliott complains.

“Hey, that's because I'm just better than you,” Christian tells him.

“But poor Chad!” Sid reminds us.

“Yeah, I do feel a little bad,” I remark, “But he really shouldn't have gotten in the way of my Frisbee!” I do joke about it, but I do hope that he is alright; I have a very guilty conscience. I grab my book bag and swing it over my sweaty shoulder. “Well I have to go now, but I'll see you tomorrow!” I call back to my posse.

“Don't forget to do your biology!” Christian yells back.

“You mean your biology?” I answer. Grinning, I turn towards the parking lot, ignoring the rest of what they have to say. I don't notice that I have a person following me.